


Epitome of beauty.

by Anirion



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, OOC Sherlock, POV John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-06
Updated: 2013-12-06
Packaged: 2018-01-03 16:33:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1072706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anirion/pseuds/Anirion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ode to Sherlock's hands.<br/>Let’s imagine it’s John’s thoughts about Sherlock’s hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Epitome of beauty.

Your hands are the epitome of beauty. If you lived in the same era with Michelangelo, it would have been your delicate fingers embellishing the arch of Sistine chapel.

They would draw gazes and shimmer with whiteness of the moon.

I have no doubts that there would have been several chapters dedicated to your hands in the audio guide.

As a doctor I can say that from an anatomic point of view they are perfect – symmetrical phalanges, neat round-shaped nails. As your lover I can say that they drive me crazy.

Your fingers are heralds of your desires, when you hurriedly undress me. I prefer to deal with your clothes by myself.

You are subtle gifted musician. The violin in your hands fills the world with heavenly harmony and delightful consonance. You play as masterfully on the strings of my desire, that never ceases to fade when you are around. Your hands have power over my body. The moment you touch my lips, my mouth dutifully swings open, drinking in the coolness of your fingers. When your palm covers my heart, it speeds up. Your finger-pads explore my chest teasingly, giving rise to the tsunami inside. The most delicate spots long for your velvet touch, that draws air from the lungs and gives birth to shy (only at the beginning) moans.

 

The caress of your hands can be tough at times. They ruin my tranquility and control, when squeeze me in burning embrace of your lust. Sometimes you leave purple traces on my skin while claiming your rights on me. Your greed is equal to your generosity. You do not only take, you give.

Your wrists are painted with blue ink of veins. You offer them so trustingly when I aim to tease you with languor. Shackles of my passion embrace them with such exultation disabling you to touch me. You blindly give in yourself over to my love.

You do know…It’s the matter of trust. And we’ve found it along with friendship, just a little earlier before we’ve found love.

Your hands are very expressive. They can comfort just with a subtle pat on a shoulder. They give confidence with a friendly grip on a hand. You silently confess your love and devotion by entwining our fingers together.

I worship your hands and yourself. You bring warmth just as them despite seeming coldness.


End file.
